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The publisher of a new Australian magazine called Mini Shots volunteered the writer featured in her inaugural issue, Simon Groth, to write a post for FtQ. I said give it a try, and liked the result. Here's what the publisher, Lisa Dempster, says about her new magazine:

Mini Shots is a new concept magazine series. Each magazine
contains one short
story only - the perfect size to read on the tram to
work, over your morning coffee or while you're waiting for a friend.

Issue #001 : Coda, by Simon GrothMartin Finn wants to write the Great Australian Novel. Only problem is, he can't move a muscle in his body - literally.

Simon's essay on openings:

Kurt Vonnegut wrote a short story called Harrison Bergeron
which begins like this: 'The year was 2081, and everybody was finally
equal.' This is typical of his style. I remember reading somewhere that
Vonnegut preferred this kind of opening, that he was able to shortcut a
lot of establishment by simply stating the facts baldly. I must admit,
with an opening sentence like that, you know exactly what you're going
to get.

Although I shamelessly pilfer much of Vonnegut's technique, I've
never once opened a story in this fashion. Something has always bugged
me about announcing the year in the first sentence of a story. Nobody
does that in real life. I didn't start this essay with: 'The year is
2007 and I am sitting on the couch.' Harrison Bergeron was originally published in 1961, so maybe times were simpler back then.

Let's try it again. The year is 2007, it is now the day after I wrote the last paragraph and I am on my lunch break.

Nah, it's still not working for me.

Like the authors I venerate, I cut my teeth writing short stories
and, unlike them, only recently graduated (if you want to call it that)
to novels. So far, my technique for introducing a longer work is no
different from the shorter form. I've never been one for holding the
reader's hand. The example below is from my short story Coda, recently released in Mini Shot form by Vignette Press, but it is very similar to the opening paragraph of my first novel, Here Today.

Martin Finn rolls his eyes at me. Two seconds into my first patient
here and I've put my foot in it. How is he? He can't move a muscle in
his body! How do you think he feels, Astrid?

This is my kind of opening. It makes very few direct statements, but
tells you a lot about these people, their surroundings, and the
situation in which they find themselves. Astrid's voice is also
established here as well as the first inklings of what kind of person
is telling this story. Crucially, it also establishes a tension - a
gentle tension I'll grant you, but a tension nonetheless. Immediately
you may begin asking yourself questions about how Martin ended up in
this state, or how Astrid will recover from making such a clinical faux
pas.

The other thing I like about this opening is that you enter
immediately after the dialogue. You know what was said, or at least you
can make an educated guess, but you didn't 'hear' it. You didn't need
to. For me, an opening should draw you in, not by neatly establishing
the facts, but by intriguing you, by dropping you into a scene with no
preparation and no expectations.

It can be incredibly effective in getting a story running from the
first sentence (essential for short fiction), but it is also a delicate
balancing act.

The line between intriguing a reader and annoying them is extremely
fine. Set up a mystery, by all means, but find some quick early
resolution so the reader can continue without being completely baffled.
In some ways, this is where short stories come into their own. You can
entertainingly baffle a reader for 2,000 words, but anything after that
and they'll stop reading. In the example above, I don't immediately
resolve the reason for Martin's condition, but I do further establish
that we are in a hospital, that Astrid is an occupational therapist,
and that the faux pas is nothing more than her misunderstanding of
Martin's communication technique.

Is there a name for this technique? I'm sure there is, but I don't
have much use for nomenclature. Suffice to say that, while it's not the
only and perhaps not even the best means of introducing fledgling
readers to your magnum opus, it does establish tension and, done well,
compels further investigation. It's playful, a knowing nod from author
to reader that they will have to think. There won't be any
spoon-feeding here. Of course the trick then is to follow it up with
something equally compelling and engaging. That's where the writer's
work really begins.

The year is 2007 and I'm already thinking about what I need to do
this evening for the new novel. It doesn't make for much of an ending
either.